Al Ghul: The Demon Seed (original story)

Prologue

È mèng. The fourth planet in the constellation Perseus and the only habitable one circling it’s three sister stars. Its’ primary star, a B8-class blue giant named al Ghul, or the Demon star, by the human spacers that first noticed it so long ago, is eclipsed every seventy Earth hours by the slightly smaller orange K2-class Algol B and every two years by the tiny A5-class dwarf Algol C. The world is both light and dark, for three suns makes the weather extremely variable, yet for the few Off-Worlders who stay locked to the Space Port near the Eastern Ranges, the world might as well as be a forbidden, dark world of nightmares, for È mèng is the home of the Seven Tribes, all of them secretive, all of them deadly, and none of them friendly to human-kind.

Chapter 1

Sarab stared out the plastiglass window, silver flashes of lightning illuminating the spaceport and the surrounding covered walkways leading from the various off-world lodgings. The buildings were barely two-generations old, their bright white walls like giant spikes protruding out of the black-red earth. Such an eyesore and completely antagonistic to the native dwellings made of low-slung black basalt rock. The world was uniformly dark for over thirty-five Earth hours, then slammed with a pearlescent light that both blinded and burnt the surface the other thirty-five with eclipses signalling the transition. A ring of fire-spewing volcanoes traced a slithering path out in the Western Ocean, it’s farthest reaches stretching from pole to pole while the main continent was split East and West by a mountain ridge perpetually snowed in and surrounded by gale-force winds not ever the hardiest hovercraft could fly through. 

The Twin Valleys held the four demi-human clans- Fox and Wolf to the East, Bear and Badger to the West. North of the Eastern valley was the dark forest of Callil, a land shrouded in a perpetual mist inside the crater of an extinct volcano, it’s people a whisper of rumour and legend, for no off-worlder had ever seen one of the mystical Power wielders. To the South of Badger lands lay the black glass desert of Kain. The desert warriors of Sangrin were fierce and known for their inclination to slice off heads first and ask questions later. The rode great hairy beasts with meter-long tusks and grey-pallid skin that stood two-meters high and made the earth tremble as they passed with hooked noses and small furry tufts along their back ends. Finally, past the Ring of Fire where the Dwellers of the Deep, the Cathos, a people so long removed from the soil their feet and hands were webbed, their pearly skin and white hair glowing with a soft luminescence that made them glow in their midnight dark sea homes. In over forty-years only one of their number had ever granted an audience with the spacers and only because their ship had crashed into their waters, all dead save one.

Sarab turned from the night view and leaned back against the cool glass. He alone had survived his ship’s entry to È mèng. He alone had meet Kris’a’i, the leader of the Cathos. Honestly, he had no idea why he wasn’t dead, except that Kris’a’i was without hatchlings and saw in him a potential replacement-child. Sarab pinched the bridge of his nose, a long fingered brown hand turned pale from his years on planet. His father, Burj, had been an ore merchant heading for the spaceport when their flight stabilizer had malfunctioned and all thirty-two crew members, save him, had perished, either in the initial crash or the freezing oceans. So far from any land, Sarab was certain he too would die, but the Cathos Queen had come to his rescue and somehow, he’d survived that nightmare. She’d brought him back to their underwater city, healed him, taught him, and changed him. For the Tribes of È mèng were not the backwards people most thought, their technology was impressive and unfathomable, even to him, who had studied at some of the best schools on Earth and Mars. Kris’a’i had used some word to describe it, but the closest translation he could find was Magic or Alchemy, but for the spacers, they often just used the term Power. For that’s what these strange, fascinating people were, a People of Power who could bend the very fabric of nature itself to their wills. The sea-dwelling Cathos with their gills and razor sharp teeth, claws, and fins; the Beast people of the clans who shared bodies with their animal counterparts and lived in  caves and tunnel runs; the sand nomads whose skin was as black as their land; and the forest dwellers who were rumoured to be more plant than men.

No, the lands and Tribes of È mèng were not for the faint of heart to go exploring, which is why the missive blinking on his wrist was such a terrifying thought.

“Comrade Sarab.”

The hiss of the Karanthas messenger’s voice slid through his comm-link. Flipping his wrist, the projection screen appeared on his forearm showing him the large-eyed, scaled Administrator for the port.

“Sarab here, go ahead Comrade Xyes.”

“Comrade Sarab, we had a meeting at 2230. It is now 2231, why are you absent?”

Sarab bit the inside of his cheek to stop the words from flowing, then inclined his head slightly. “My apologies Administrator, I am two-levels down and will be there momentarily.”

“The Guild has sent a representative…An Academy man.” The hiss of displeasure was audible across the comm. “You will speak to him.”

“Understood.”

Sarab flicked his wrist and the link went dead. A Guild approved Academy man. Interesting. The Guild ran the ore mining operation on a dozen worlds including È mèng. They were...persistent, in their negotiations with the locals on whatever world they ran on, while the Academy of Magic was È mèng’s equivalent to the University system. They taught the various tribe member’s ruling classes and occasionally an off-worlder like himself. After his run-in with the Cathos, Sarab had been deemed the ‘expert’ on the various Tribes and participated in most of the Port’s Guild negotiations, but to have a Guild representative come for something not related to the ore trade was unheard of.

The lift took him directly to the Administrator’s triangular office. The towers were all triangular in shape with a central lift and three offices in each of the points. Every tenth floor there was a rest-space designed around one of the many alien species. Karanthians were reptilian in nature and preferred the hot, dry rocky landscape of their home world. The Administrator’s office reflected this preference with high temperature and low humidity and bright white overhead lights that destroyed even shadows. Sarab took a moment in the doorway to swallow several times and take shallow breaths. A droid offered him a tall thin glass with the smashed remains of the pulpy Longee fruit, it’s pale pink flesh flavourless until rotting when it became almost cloyingly sweet. The long tongue of the Karanthian flicked into his own glass effortlessly, while Sarab and the Guild member used long silver spoons that had been hollowed to allow for either drinking or eating.

Sarab took the moment to observe the Academy member. Older than himself of course, one rarely saw a young Academy member, but beyond that Sarab wouldn’t even hazard a guess as to the man’s age. The Tribes all seemed to age very slowly until adulthood then stop until just before death where they aged seemingly overnight. He’d never gotten a straight answer, but from what he could figure out, the average life expectancy for one of the Four Animal Clans was close to one-hundred-fifty Earth years with the Cathos closer to four hundred and the Sangrin closer to eighty, although that could be based upon their war-like tendencies more so than metabolism. If he had to guess, the man before him was beyond middle years and from the pale blond hair and bright blue eyes set in a sharply defined face, he was Fox clan. Sarab inclined his head at both men and took the seat opposite the Academy member.

“Comrade Sarab, negotiator for the spaceport,” Xyes hissed. “Master Llwynog from the Academy. He is Fox Clan.”

“Master.” Sarab murmured.

Llwynog was tall for a fox, close to Sarab’s own six-foot, but very thin with long fingers and high, sharp cheekbones. His face was more triangular than oval and his glacier blue eyes were almost hidden behind the perpetual squint the man wore. He wore the traditional Fox Clan dark blue double-breasted robes over flowing white pants, his long feet encased in the shimmering black skin of the desert snake known only as om to outsiders. The true name was some twenty-three characters long and impossible for anyone other than the Sangrin to pronounce. The dark robes were finely worked in silver threads showing scenes of foxes at play and stylized mountains and bound thrice around his thin waist by a white woven belt looped twice with small flint daggers. A large leather satchel bag was by his feet and still held the fur of whatever poor animal it had been made from. Llwynog leaned forward towards him, hands steepled under a sharp chin and a toothless grin that made Sarab’s teeth clench just looking at it. Used to trusting his gut, Sarab didn’t like the man at the least.

“Negotiator Sarab,” The voice was lighter than Sarab would have thought, but he could hear the undercurrent of Power as the man spoke. It was soft, a mere thread of sound, but it was there and it immediately set every hair on his body rising. The Academy Master’s eyes pinched shut at the edges.

“My apologies, I did not realize you were so sensitive to the Power. Negotiator, the Academy and the Guild, have need of someone with your skill-set.”

“What type of need?”

In stead of answering, the Guild Master leaned back against the chair and gently folded his hands on his lap.

“What do you know of the Callil?”

Sarab blinked slowly, sitting back as well, his long legs stretched before him. “The Callil inhabit the forests north of the Wolf Clans. Rumour says they are tied to the land and cannot leave their volcanic crater.”

The Master nodded. “There is some truth to this rumour, but not much. The Callil are tied more closely to the lands than we of the Clans, this is true, they can bend the plants and earth around them to suit their needs, but they are not forbidden from leaving the forest, nor are they extinct, which is perhaps the other side of the rumour you speak about. There are few, very few, left, but those that remain are very, very strong.”

He took a sip of Longee fruit juice and sat back, tapping his finger on the edge of the glass as if deciding what to tell and what not to.

“Ten generations ago there was a war between the Sangrin and the Callil. Back then the mountains were still passable and the Sangrin warred on the Clans as well as the Callil. They took captives from the Tigot’et people a sub-species of the Callil who made blood pacts and burrowed through the earth as easily as a fish through water. These blood pacts allowed the Callil to move beyond their boarders and roam Clan lands. However, pacts between the Tigot’et and the Sangrin gave the nomads an almost berserker fury. The Clans and the Callil joined forces and using Power forbidden by the ancients, twisted the mountains and created the gales and ice that sealed the East and West, forcing the Sangrin back into the desert.”

He took another long sip. “The Guild believes the Tigot’et were wiped out, the Callil forced back to their forests and the valleys left to the clans.”

Sarab noted the phrase, "You said, 'the Guild believes', are you not their man?"

Llwynog's mouth quirked, "Very good, Negotiator. The Academy finds it useful to associate with the Guild, likewise, the Guild finds it useful to send one of us when there are more...let us call them, delicate, issues at play."

Sarab nodded slowly, “Interesting, but what does all this have to do with me?”

“Two days ago, a stranger came to the Academy's Library in Causeway. He was dressed like a member of the Clans, but his skin was pale as moon glow and across his skin flowed inky black vines. His eyes likewise were black and, it was said, evil flowed around him like the black of his robes.”

Llwynog leaned forward, his eyes open and sharp, “Two days ago, he killed everyone in the Library and then continued West towards the mountains. He took a book. A sacred book that if used could open the mountains and allow the Sangrin access to this world.”

Sarab swallowed hard. “And you want me to negotiate with this mad man?”

Fox eyes crinkled closed, “No. I want you to negotiate with the Tribes. All of the tribes, save the Sangrin of course, they’d as soon eat you as negotiate. I want you to find the Callil, because I am certain that this man is one of them and I want you to put together a group to stop him, because if he uses that book, only the combined power of the Tribes will be able to stop him.”

Llwynog stood languidly, the empty glass forgotten on the small table beside his chair. He picked up the satchel and pulled out a small metal disk wrapped in a leather band meant to be worn on the wrist.

“This is the Tallikut, it will warn you when you are close to a strong Power wielder. Hopefully it will lead you to those that can help.”

Pulling the satchel over his head he turned and walked to the door.

“Wait!” Sarab called out, rising as well. “This man, the one who killed everyone, what is his name?”

“Bran.” The Master said, his voice heavy with sadness. “His name is Bran.”

TBC.