Ambrosia Page 8
“Well, why are you rooting for him? I thought she was so trunkin’ amazing.”
Storgen shrugged. “I always root for the human.”
Pops walked over and snatched a sugar cube out of the dish. “You know, The Lady of the White Lotus could defeat them both. She can absorb any attack leveled at her.”
Philiastra rolled her eyes. “No one cares about your made-up heroine, Pops.”
Pops thought carefully as he sucked on the sugar cube.
“I care.”
A knock at the door startled all three of them.
“Excuse me?” came a woman’s voice from the other side. “Is someone in there?”
Storgen and Philiastra looked at each other in concern.
The door banged again, louder this time.
“Open up,” a man shouted. “Who’s in there?”
“Uh, oh.”
~
His metal skin flaking away in a dozen places, his body burned and beaten, Arsenal howled like a wolf, his tattered wings flinging him forward towards his enemy.
Her body battered and bruised, her armor shredded, Erolina bellowed like a lion as she charged atop a pillar of fire. Her voice seemed supernatural, as if a choir of voices joined her, all the rage of her race, the strength of all her people focused at one point and one moment.
The two champions clashed one final time, the air exploding with lightning, and then all became deathly quiet. They fell through the air, softly spinning on what remained of Arsenal’s wings, then, with a terrible crash, hit the ground of the temple courtyard.
No one dared breathe. You could have heard a pin drop. Even the great god Ferranus stood up, his molten eyes trying to pierce the smoke that obscured any indication of what had happened. Some of the younger children in the audience cried out in concern, their mothers moving to hush them.
Inside the dust, something stirred. A silhouette formed, a person walking free of the fumes. Everyone looked on in anticipation, desperate to know which one it was.
Arsenal stumbled out of the cloud, and the followers of Ferranus cheered in elation. Confetti was thrown into the air, men jumped up and down, women fainted. The god of the forge laughed mightily and raised his goblet in toast to Ambera.
But the goddess of fertility showed no concern. Betrayed no more emotion as a bored schoolgirl at lecture as she lazily chewed on her gum.
Ferranus grew concerned, and looked again. A second silhouette was forming within the dust. Arsenal took a stumbling step forward, and then with a groan fell to his knees, collapsing, unconscious to the ground.
Erolina emerged from the smoke, calm, cool, and collected, her scythe held high over her head. She stood over her fallen foe. Just for good measure, she placed her ruined boot on the back of his head and ground his face a little deeper into the ground.
Now it was the followers of Ambera that lost their minds. They cheered until their voices went hoarse, then they just kept on cheering anyway. Removing her dagger, Erolina bent over and carefully cut off Arsenal’s long silver dreadlocks until he was shorn.
The announcer flew over, and Erolina presented him with the removed silver hair.
“Ambera is triumphant!”
As impossibly loud as they had been, the crowd managed to become even louder. This is the moment they lived for. This is what gave their lives meaning. Their god was triumphant, and all the other problems of the world, all the daily grind and injustice just faded away.
“What is truth? The truth is this is our joy, this is our superlative moment of bliss, this is our reason for living!”
Ambera came out, drinking in the adulation of her people. She raised her hand and every one of her talismans within the colosseum glowed brightly in resonance.
Ferranus howled in rage, smashing his fist into his throne and shattering it entirely.
“This is an outrage! I will not stand for it!”
The announcer grew timid, backing away fearfully.
“So, are you trying to say you’re NOT going to honor your oath?” Ambera asked venomously, crossing her arms and smacking her gum.
The glowing contract within his fist began to hum and crackle ominously. Ferranus looked at it defiantly at first, but as its pulsing grew in power and volume, he closed his eyes and relented.
“I will deliver your barrel within the hour.”
Ambera clapped her hands. “Excellent. A pleasure doing business with you, Rusty.”
The binding contract grew silent, and Ferranus strode away in a huff.
Erolina, still as calm as a summer breeze, walked off the field while Ambera basked in the praise and adoration of the crowds. The large doors closed behind her, and the deafening cries ceased. Alone, her scythe fell to the ground, kicking up a ploom of dust. Before her was her small room, little more than a cell, with moldy walls and stagnant pools of fetid water. In one corner, a mount set for her armor, a stand awaiting her weapon. In another corner, a pile of straw covered with a tarp. On a loose brick sat a hairbrush and a piece of glass, on a tin plate sat a dry loaf of bread. The only personal item was a small faded locket that hung from a crooked nail on the wall.
Her breathing became labored gasps. She reached up to remove her helmet, but her bruised and bloodied fingers were shaking too hard to work the clasp. She fell to one knee, unable to stand, then fell to her side. Wrapping her arms around herself, she trembled from the pain of her wounds, and sobbed quietly to herself in the dark.
Chapter Five
“Emotion precedes all action. Emotion is energy. Emotion is the fuel which powers all change. Harnessed in alchemic gold, aged in caves of crystal silver, all the love and devotion of millions of humans runs like a river, where it flows into one of the Eternals, the celestial trees that once flourished in the heavens above. Their roots drink deeply of the tribute, and when their sap is tapped, it comes out as golden Ambrosia. The drink of the gods. Pure aether, raw magic which the gods can use to work their miracles. The more Ambrosia, the more can be accomplished, from something as mundane as changing the color of an object, to miracles that permanently reshape the laws of reality itself. Such is the infinite power of human emotion. The upper limits of what is possible have never been measured, but one thing is certain: Were any one god able to unite all of humanity under a single banner of devotion, the very cosmos itself could be folded away like a book and made anew. Thus the Fates feared the potential of the humans they had created, and decided to curse them forever.”
- Alchemic Principals, Chapter 8, Verse 14
Ambera looked decidedly uneasy as she was escorted to the doors of the inner sanctum. The most holy place inside the Great Temple of Sirend, a place where no mortal could ever sep foot, a place reserved only for the gods, and of course, the handful of beings even more powerful than the gods.
She drew in her floating golden hair nervously as she stepped past the pair of cyclops standing guard. Great glowing shackles around their wrists and neck, even enslaved they were terrifying to her. Sirend was known for these kind of power games, putting someone off balance before a meeting even began.
Everything in the room beyond was designed to give him a psychological advantage. The floor was slightly slanted, raising up the Elder God above his visitor, and forcing them to leaning forward ever so slightly, the beginnings of a bow.
The rows of statues all faced inwards, all in the act of paying homage, so that any guest found themselves standing alongside rows of worshippers, each one a depiction of an elemental or phantasm enslaved during the War of the Stars. And, of course, three empty pedestals, signifying the three Fates, the only beings left who resided above the gods.
Sirend sat forward in his chair, his hands interlocked in his lap. His blue skin rippled with light, splashing off of every surface, giving the effect that the entire room was underwater.
Flanking him on either side were two spheres of water, vicious sharks swimmi
ng around hungrily within.
“Please, sit down.”
“Uh, okay.”
Something about the formality in his voice made her even more uneasy. Without thinking about it, she took out her gum and tucked it behind her ear.
“I saw your duel yesterday against Ferranus. An admirable victory.”
“You were there?”
“I had someone watching.”
“Oh, that’s a little…ahem, you summoned me.”
“Ah, right to business, a copacetic choice. Ambera, you sit upon the most lucrative authority in the cosmos. Goddess of the harvest and fertility. When I condescend to think about the humans, I cannot imagine anything they want more than food and procreation.”
“Um…thanks?”
He leaned forward, placing his elbows against the fine polished surface of his desk. “So, tell me, what have you done with the privileged position I bestowed upon you?”
She looked around furtively. “Am I being fired?”
“We’ll get to that. For now, tell me about your plans.”
“Well, I mean, Ambrosia intake was up eleven percent last quarter. The harvest festival went far better than projected.”
“That was yesterday,” he said, cutting her off. “What have you done for me today?”
She bristled a little at the question. “I supposed my plan is to continue doing what I have been doing. You take a full half of all the ambrosia I acquire, and I know for a fact my contribution makes up nearly a third of every drop you reap from all the empire. If something isn’t broken, don’t fix it, right?”
Sirend leaned back, exhaling in a way that just dripped with disappointment. “See, that is exactly your problem, Ambera. You don’t see the big picture. You never have. You only look as far ahead as the next harvest, the next season. I suppose it is a limitation of your post.”
Ambera had to bite her tongue at that one. “As an Elder God, you receive all your ambrosia from the gods beneath you. I suppose that leaves you with much time to ponder and plan.”
“Indeed, and do you know what I see when I ponder our cosmos?”
Ambera desperately wanted to say, ‘your big fat head,’ but instead she just grit her teeth and waited for him to continue.
Sirend stood up and the room became transparent. All of creation was laid out around them. Above, the constellations and the ruins of their old heavenly home, below, the islands of the sea and the mortal races. Far off to the west, the great mountainous continent of Garralos.
“The champion system has failed. We’ve gained no new territory from Nation of Agadis in nearly a decade. This stalemate is unacceptable.”
“The champion system was your idea.”
Sirend looked down, feigning humility. “Yes, I overestimated the abilities of you and the others.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So, it’s our fault, then?”
“The humans were not reproducing fast enough to replace the losses. It had become too costly to raise armies of sufficient size, ambrosia stockpiles were dwindling. The champion system, if used competently, should have allowed you to seize all of Reinala’s lands with minimal loss of resources. Instead, it has become a sham as you all use it to relieve boredom and shuffle territories between one another.”
Unable to hold her tongue any longer, she stood up from her chair. “Those territories…”
“Those territories do not belong to you! They are mine. I make you stewards over them, never forget that.”
The titans stirred against their restraints, silencing the goddess.
Sirend took a moment to regain his composure. The view of the room shifted, highlighting Garralos in red. Along the eastern cost were territories in green, currently held by the Erotan Empire.
“Yesterday I received an anniversary gift from my ex-wife. Do you know what she sent me?”
“Flowers?”
“A donkey. A mangy, unwashed sickly beast of fleas. Can you appreciate what she meant by that?”
“She’s clearly calling you an…”
“She’s up to something. My spy network has caught wind of it. She is stockpiling ambrosia, and that can only mean she has a plan. But we will not let her win, oh no, we will strike first. We are going to build up our forces and destroy Agadis completely.”
“How?”
He smiled knowingly. “We are going to do something we haven’t done in an age. We are going to build up enough ambrosia to enact a miracle.”
“A miracle? This sounds like the war against the Fates all over again.”
“We had already beaten the titans, the giants, and the elementals. The Fates were all that stood in our path.”
“The Fates crippled us! All that remains is a fraction of our former power. Without daily doses of ambrosia we would diminish until…”
Sirend slammed his palms against his desk. The sound shocked her into silence.
“The war of the Fates should have been ours, but my plans were ruined by the incompetence of your predecessor. Do you wish to share her fate?”
Ambera stood there, trembling with anger and fear.
“No,” she whispered.
“Good. I’m increasing your weekly tithe. I want double the current amount of ambrosia for every acre of land you control.”
Her golden eyes went wide with shock. “Double?”
“Not enough? Okay, since you object, let’s make it triple, then.”
She balled her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms. It took every ounce of control for her to remain silent.
Sirend nodded approvingly. “Yes, triple should be enough.”
He placed his hands at the small of his back and looked out over the map of Agadis. “I will break through her walls and crush her cities, I will plant my flag on her temples and slaughter her cattle. And when she has lost everything, I will make her get down on her knees and beg for my forgiveness.”
* * *
The great waterwheels in the Apérantos River spun lazily as the waterclock above them ticked the onset of evening. In response, pulley systems that ran up and down the street automatically retracted the cloth awnings above the shops and lowered the shutters to keep out the setting sun. The café towers slowly rotated to give a better view of the plains, and one by one, each of the gas streetlights sparked to life.
The hoplites walked down the flagstone street, looking at every shopper, throwing back hoods and frightening ladies when they lowered their fans and lifted their parasols without warning. Some of the shopkeepers came out to protest the treatment of their customers, but the hoplites ignored them as they went about their task.
A clockwork carriage passed by and the hoplites stopped it to inspect the passengers. One of them flipped down special crystal lenses over his goggles that allowed him to view inside the luggage strapped to the roof. As they flashed wanted posters to the driver and occupants, three shadows rolled out from beneath the carriage and slipped unseen into the alley beyond.
“Okay, I think we’re safe for now,” Storgen whispered, trying to control his breathing as he hunkered behind a dumpster. A clatter of pots startled him, and he looked up just in time to see Philiastra hefting herself up and over the side of the dumpster.
“Phili, what are you doing?”
She pulled her goggles down over her eyes. “Hang on, there’s treasure in here,” she grunted. “I can feel it.”
“We don’t have time for this. Pops and I need to put to sea.”
His voice was completely lost in the racket as she burrowed around in the trash like some happy little otter.
Pops scooted close, reluctant to speak.
“You know, lad. If we need money in a hurry…”
“No.”
“…there is a place we can go.”
Storgen gritted his teeth, his face becoming stern. “No. Absolutely not. I won’t even consider it.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. Forget I said anything.”
Philiastra burst out of the garbage, holding a filt
hy etched urn in her hands like it was a trophy.
“Whoa, look at this!” she gushed, lifting her goggles up. “It’s a self-cleaning hot pot. Do you know how much these things go for?”
“After they’ve been thrown away? I’m gonna guess…zero.”
She spat on the sigils and wiped a spot clean with her elbow, tearing the fabric of her shirt. “No way, I can fix this easily.”
“Phili, no one is going to want to eat food cooked in a pot you pulled out of the garbage.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. If I don’t tell them, they’ll never know.”
“You should know, I am never eating anything you bring me ever again.”
She found the lid and jumped down, inspecting the crystal heating ring at the bottom.
“Oh yeah, a little soap, a little love, a new induction coil, and this treasure will be as good as new.”
Pops frowned. “It looks pretty cheap, I’m not sure it was good even when it was new.”
She gasped in offense, cradling the device. “Careful what you say, you’ll hurt her feelings.”
“It’s a she now?”
“All treasures are shes.”
“Pah! Always rummaging around in the trash; this is not ladylike behavior.”
“Oh, this coming from a dirty old man?”
“I washed yesterday. Did you?”
“Give it a rest, will ya’ Pops?” Storgen cautioned.
“No, I won’t give it a rest. She’s sick, and you are enabling her. I’ve held my tongue long enough.”
Philiastra deflated. “Ugh, this is about what I said to you in the skybox, isn’t it?”
Pops stepped up, pointing an accusatory finger. “You are a terrible childhood friend to my boy. You never sneak in to wake him up in the morning…”
“He wakes up before I do.”
“…You never make him homemade lunches cut into cute little animal shapes...”
“My family owns a five star café, that’s way better than anything I could make by hand.”
“…You don’t pester him about his school studies or nag him to show more career ambition…”