(Originally titled as "The Pinnacle of Night" in Gothocracy: Book One)
After the ascending of sentient beings into the heavens above… therein a
place inert dwelled the remnants of civilization. They were cruel intellects of
a twisted creed, dedicated to the enslavement of all that remained of
humanity.
Salt covers these barren wastelands. Glass shards rise from the earth in
mockery of the long gone trees. The only life that dares to show its ugly head
is under lock and key within the shunned city of Babyldel. Of course, there were those who
sought answers beyond the dogma Gothocracy embraced by the sinful denizens of
Babyldel. Strays, they were called by the Ministry of Babydel. They were a
people who dwelled beyond the compound city and the great mountain that loomed
over the city of Babydel.
The strays were safe from the corruption of the Ministry, for a time at least,
due to the Ministry’s fear of the eye-maddening dimensions of the colossal
mountain—the Pinnacle of Night. Therein, lie the answers to humanity’s past,
and the origin of earth’s attackers.
Closing near the zenith of the dark mountains that overshadow the hellish
spires of the citadel, a rogue ventures toward the entrance of enchantment…
(Joseph)
Joseph held his footing where there were crevices in the rock. His nightblind
eyes suspected an alcove was not far up. Fragile rock slipped through
his grasp. He reached up with his weaker arm to test the ledge, but his
hand could barely detect even the texture of the rock. He thought it felt
smooth, and surely he might slip if he were to chance letting go with his
stronger arm. For sometime the rogue pressed against the mountainside
and endured the abrasive atmosphere. The wind howled mournfully. His
long, dark hair whipped out into the ebony that engulfed him. Like a small
insect he extended his feelers carefully over the contour of the smooth
mountain side. It would be a sharp drop to the bottom if he failed to find
the proper footing.
The children must be fast asleep by now, Joseph allowed himself a wolfish
smile. The school had greatly appreciated his contribution of old world
books and relics many times. However, Joseph wasn’t certain that any relics,
or writing, would be discovered on this venture. In fact, he knew that he may
not make it to the zenith of the mountain.
With all his thinking, Joseph hadn’t recognized a faint of light coming from
just above the ledge. It was a very faint light and would not be observable
unless he had been in the dark for so long, and so high up. Joseph threw his
arm up and grasped the nearest rock. He faithfully released his strong arm to
pull himself closer to the light. It did not look far now. Joseph’s instincts
told
him to be ready for anything despite the lonely gloom that encompassed the
elder mountain. He cradled the scabbard at his hip. The smith-blade dangled
boldly against the rough contour of Joseph’s body and the dark silhouette of
the mountainside. The rogue pulled himself over the ledge and collapsed
upon himself.
When his strength returned, Joseph took in his surroundings with keen
eyes—which had adjusted to the eternal night of that mountain spire
above Gothocracy. There, just a few feet away, lay the path he must take.
The craftsmanship of the Old Ones with its runic lore decorated the facade
of a great entrance to times lost. This would be his entrance to fortune
and glory.
Down, deep, he skillfully descended the ledge to the bedrock plateau.
As the rogue stood before those timeless double doors, the wind whipped at
his long, dark hair—pulling its lengths into the ebony foreclosure of the
mountain spires that encompassed that welcoming flat area of the mountain—
where the inner walls of rock were shorter near the doors. It almost
seemed as if the towering mountain wall he had climbed was but a facade,
meant to hide its treasures from curious eyes. Joseph mused at his triumph
of the deadly mountain. He could not help but grin as he eagerly began
translating the markings on the doors. But before he could complete the
translation—to his surprise—the doors opened.
(JON)
He sat upon the throne to chaos, mindfully engaging the telepathic apparatus
of the foreign consul; communicating with the inert intelligence of
the otherworldly structures behind the facade of space and time. Awaken!
The command transcended through the ethernet of alien thoughts. It
bestowed upon Jon a greater burden than the transgressions of the old gods
against mankind. His human brain convulsed under the brilliant rising of a
new conscious within himself. Like a freight train taking him to the end of
a long journey, he found himself and lost himself at the end of the railing.
Jon reflected upon his new guise. That insane skullcap, with its many arrows
protruding from his crown—ending in random digressions propelled his
thoughts and essence into the intelligent edifice.
His mind was in every fiber, every construct, and every angle of the old keep.
Jon sensed the stealthy trespasser in his keep, much in the same way he might
detect an insect crawling up his leg. And the intrusion was as irritating as
that
of an insect crawling over his brow, seeking a way into the moisture of his
eyes; his nose; his ears.
Again, the memory of his long begotten wreaked havoc upon his conscience.
His twisted console grooved with the morbid rhythm of his ceaseless lament
for her.
Jon’s agony resonated within the console of his own heart. Silver clouds
drifted heavenly within Jon’s peripheral vision.
“Don’t worry about them, Jon”, her voice came to his ear like a sweet insect
singing. “They have not your heart. For they cannot feel beyond their own
immediate experiences—they are trapped in a wicked interface of wanting
whatever they see before them. They have no ethos. They have only information
and a lust for that which they can never truly possess; but that which
will ultimately possess them.”
Jon wept in memory of her. Oh, the woman that had been such a small person
at first had become a great one—he sank into thoughts beyond the grimness
of his insane imprisonment. “For had I given weight to her words,” Jon
whispered. The air stilled for a moment all around him. Then Jon sighed
with his head falling into his hands. The tips of his crown prodded his knees,
trickling psychic residue from their hideous design. It began to irritate him
how much the innards of his environment seemingly mocked his impulses…
until he learned to resist impulsiveness!
He straightened himself, recomposing himself. The insane skullcap on that cull
head of his had constricted itself—and its pointers stretched outward; arrow
tips
twisted and erected in all directions from his crown, and even his garments
took
on the decor of chaos’ splendor.
I won’t let this insectcreep inside my home unwelcome. Let him be cast down and
crawl back to that dreadful rat hole of a citadel. They are all traitors, he
thought—all of them!
Were it not for me, he realized, they would all have been the slaves of that
terrible
alien. I must send him back, Jon realized. He must go! No. Wait, he
contemplated.
Let him come in and look around a bit. Jon’s smile was grim.
(JOSEPH)
He followed not his instincts, but the long stretches of dim hallways—where
the walls hummed and the innards of the old keep expanded and contracted
with a vital breath of its own. Madness seized his conscience every time he
dared to contemplate whether the design of the old fortress was symmetrical
or asymmetrical and the engravings in the walls were beyond comprehension.
As for the latter, these designs were not the empty imprints of things long
ago,
rather these engravings throbbed with an energy unknown to the sciences of
man. The patterns shifted and acted upon one another, grabbing the tail of an
arrow like design and drawing it in to a vortex that imploded, then expanded
beyond the scope of its medium of masonry—or so it was such that Joseph
perceived the unknown with the limitations that crept out of memory of the
old wizard’s legacy. The wizard, Jon Arcus, was said to have escaped the salted
waste barrens and freed the human race from its alien captors. Demons—
Joseph thought. Here in the inner walls of the shadow people’s fortress,
Joseph ventured forth with cautious steps. Each movement antagonized his
senses, for every casual glance landed his eye upon chaotic variations in the
masonry—drawing his gaze into patterns that seemed alive with diabolical
awareness, as if meeting his gaze with malign vengeance for perceiving their
existence in the stone floor, the walls and the spaces in between. The air
became heavy, full of a stench, like the innards of a gargantuan beast.
Joseph stopped at an intersection, noting the depiction of an undersea creature
slithering out of the boiling seas, there to join its cyclopean brethren
belly up on salted beaches. This reminded him of the stories he’d heard.
Joseph recited the Marcus Testament from verse 3339, “The seas parted.
The sea things slithered upon the salted shores of the earth... there they were
horridly burning. No progress as a result of the most holly intervention
between man and Satan’s beasts from beneath. Beyond the veil of night scuttled
the
creatures of darkness; Awaiting the breach.”
The rogue narrowed his vision and peered at the artwork embedded in the
wall. Cyclopean creatures writhed like snails on salt… faltering to a land that
was not land, churning horridly under the vengeful sun.
The memory of the sea things, those cyclopean creatures withering under
the damned sky, crawled in the back of his mind. Small voices peeped and
flutes piped in the abstract memorandum of those sigils on the wall.
The passage did not narrow, but rather it seemed to digress—then belched
an opening into deeper darkness. Cautiously, the rogue landed the toe of his
right boot on uneven ground. Sensing a solid flooring, Joseph moved
onward.
Frail were the sounds of memory here. Touched only by the absence of light
did the bleakness of surrounds condense into stronger purposes yet to be
exposed—or so Joseph reckoned. Megaliths were brought here, but how—he
could not imagine. Each massive stone was a work of art, displaying proud—
and arrogant, Joseph mused—nobles of all ages, and some even the rogue
could not place in his knowledge of history. The only peculiarity lie in the
strange intrusions upon the statues’ crowns. Each had a series of tentacles
bursting forth from where there should have been eyes. The strange forms
ended in sharp points—arrow tips, but distorted and uneven. Disorder was
apparently part of the artist’s expression, Joseph reckoned.
The rogue spent more time eyeing the megaliths, than he spent observing
other surroundings. Almost certain, Joseph thought, this place was a temple
erected to the gods of chaos and disorder.
It was madness to believe that anything retrieved from this venture would be
of orthodox value to the tribe. The school would have no need of such things as
did Joseph’s eyes fixate on—the strange markings seemingly alive with spite for
the young rogues every step of intrusion. It was then that the rogue noticed
the patterns on the walls were the only means of light in this hellish matrix.
The passage belched open into a chamber of catacombs. In its center erected
a spiral of steps leading down to the deeper innards of the elder lair.
Hesitantly, the rogue crossed the floor to the center. The room was absent
of any of the engravings he’d seen along the tunnels. Joseph released his
strong arm from his scabbard to shake off the cold. It was eerily cold in this
room—as if the catacombs and the coffins were made of ice. Joseph stopped.
An unmistakable scratching sounded somewhere to one side of the dome
shaped room. Joseph entertained the idea of rats scurrying about the place,
but he was not convinced. I must have a closer look at those coffins. There,
that one there. It is moist, not dry and cold like the others. The rogue noted
the condensation on the surface of the coffin. A most unusual thing—to have
such texture as to appear as if made of ice. The contour was smooth to the
touch. He noticed that the feet were visible this close to the coffin. They
were a woman’s feet, appearing to be almost buried in the material rather
than enclosed. He followed the feet to the body. Definitely female, Joseph
smiled. Then it struck him as odd—odd that she should be completely nude
in her burial. She is dead after all, he contemplated the strange custom. Once
again, that sound—scratching. It was, he realized, coming from where he
stood. My senses are playing tricks on me.
Joseph returned to the winding steps and carefully descended. He refused to
look back over his shoulder as the scratching continued. I must find the
evidence
I came here for. The old world must have come here to seek refuge
from the terrible cataclysm. I can hear them arguing now… Rand
telling his
tall tales of the old civilization. Luther would be disputing to his hearts
content
that no such human world existed before our own, and of course old Ito’s
resilient way of silence—for he believes that truth is only found in
transcendence.
Joseph wished that the old man, Ito, was with him now.
