ŠRDN: From Bronze and Darkness

By Andrea Atzori

The year is 1278 B.C. and the Mediterranean Sea is shared among the most powerful civilizations of ancient times. Greeks, Egyptians, and Phoenicians sail from port to port, ready to fight to protect their trade from the "Sea People," marauders who loot and disappear like ghosts. Among them are the fierce Shardan, who come from the "Island of Towers," from fortresses of basalt stone called nuraghes. These rise up all over the Shardan's land and, since the dawn of time, hide a curse feared by the people of the Mediterranean: the Island is the gateway to the netherworld. The Shardan live as hell-keepers, offering their loot to the Gods who protect their position. Now they are in Egypt, ready to wage war against the pharaohs when a messenger arrives from the netherworld with a warning: the Mamuthone demons have awakened.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Acheron Books
• Release date: Feb 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9788899216436

Andrea Atzori

Andrea Atzori was born in 1984 in Sardinia (Italy). He graduated with an MA in Publishing from the Oxford Brookes University and worked as an assistant editor at David Fickling Books (publisher of His Dark Materials). His first fantasy trilogy (Iskìda of the Land of Nurak) was optioned by Academy Award winner Anthony LaMolinara (SFX Spider-Man 2) for the shooting of a film teaser. He lives in Germany. www.andrea-atzori.com

Book preview

Part One

I

Awake

W e shouldn’t be here.

Nora was craning her neck in the crowd. Amid the buzz, children were crying, horses neighing, and oxen snorting as they pulled the war carts. Ahead of her, Isteli was elbowing herself a bit of space, her breath was an icy cloud in the late summer evening.

Momma, I’m cold, said Neema, raising her small sulking face. Nora opened her cloak and wrapped her up in it, pointing to the gap that Isteli was opening up in the crowd. I know, darling. I know. Keep close to me.

Ahdal moved alongside his aunt and pushed against the back of the person in front of him. They were now four lines away from the open ground. I can’t see a thing, he said as he wiggled his way through, pushing a large bearded man and creating a gap for his little sister.

Ahdal, be good and stay close to me, said Nora, grabbing him by the shoulder, and Isteli held him back. Do as your mother tells you!

I just want to see the Keeper, I want to have a clear line of view, in case…

Don’t even say such a thing, not even as a joke! Keep close and…

Momma, I really am c-cold.

Nora rubbed the little girl’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head. She held tight to her, her bright eyes looking beyond all the heads stretching forward toward the plateau. In the twilight, the dark shadow of the mountains loomed over the improvised army of the league of nine clans, as well as the islanders who had left the harvest festival at the sanctuary to rush down to see what was happening. Every ten paces, bonfires were blazing in honor of Maimon. The Arròli clan was in the center. These were their lands, theirs by right and theirs by entitlement, even more so with most of the fleet at sea. They had deployed two dozen chariots, each pulled by two horses. At their sides there were rows of archers, their arrows in their bows, pointing down.

There was no need for provocation.

The Arrìus were at their left, all on foot, the sixty-odd lancers keeping their horses at bay with some difficulty. The stallions were snorting, shaking their manes and beating their hooves on the ground. On the right were thirty-odd members of the Urs, protected by a wall of shields. The rest of the groupings, invited by the clans from farther away, were pressing behind them, as if the giants could protect them.

They were the Shardan. They were the chosen people, the guardians of Hell, the rulers of the sea.

And they were the victims caught by surprise.

We shouldn’t be here, said Nora again, being sure to keep her foothold to protect Neema from the crowd thronging behind her. Isteli continued to elbow space for herself. Oh shit, a hundred-odd swords and thousand-odd farmers. Why doesn’t the Keeper have them taken away?

Ahdal let out a snigger at Isteli’s swearing, and Nora gave her sister a dirty look. It wasn’t the best moment to try to educate her children. Are we somehow different? We shouldn’t be here, Isteli.

Let me past! Aunt, I can’t see, said Ahdal, but the man in front of him wouldn’t budge an inch.

Come on, Nora, there can’t be more than two or three of them. They will have leaked out from the Sacred Seal and gone for a stroll while the Shepherd was still far off.

And what about the Assogadòres of the garrison? Why didn’t they stop them? asked Ahdal. After his last futile shove, he’d wrapped himself up in his jerkin and pulled his cap down to keep out the cold, all the time searching Nora’s eyes for an answer she wouldn’t allow herself to give him. She pushed a lock of hair away from his face, from his stubborn black eyes, his father’s eyes. The Assogadòres were dead. Half of the Southern Cornerstone garrison had been wiped out. Their bodies hadn’t even been returned to be buried: there hadn’t been enough remains.

But maybe those were just rumors. Maybe it was just a small group, a small, rebellious, violent herd that had lost their way. Whatever, Nora knew that she had to take her children away from that place that very minute. All of a sudden, the need to leave that place pierced her chest with fear. She turned round, but a wall of bodies, of breathing faces, of agitated gazes pushed her forward. She gasped for breath, and she felt a flush of warmth in the unnatural cool of the evening. There was no space. They should never have come down to the valley; they should have…

Momma, they’re squashing me. Let’s go. Let’s go back to the tent.

Neema was pulling her skirt, and Nora stuck out her elbows to protect herself from a boy who was pushing and elbowing his way through the crowd to try and reach the front. People were trying to shove their way through and squeeze into the tiniest crack just to see what was going on.

"Shhh… Neema, darling, we’ll go straight away. As soon as people here start to leave.

Look, it’s the Keeper. He’s coming forward!

Isteli beckoned them with a nod of her head, and Ahdal grabbed onto her, trying to pull himself up to her shoulders.

The buzz of the crowd came to a sudden halt. Torches crackled, and a thousand pairs of teeth chattered uncontrollably in the cold. The priest left the lines of the Arròli clan and walked slowly into the night, beyond the fires. The horns on his ox mask rose up an arm’s length above his head and swayed, as did the forked tip of his stick. He stopped in the plateau. The light of the fires cast multiple shadows of his old, curved frame onto the grass. The Keeper was the earth. The Keeper was oak and basalt. The Keeper would never yield. Not even in front of them.

The darkness moved. A small gust of air, a restless reflection.

A clanging of cowbells burst into the terrified silence, and every single one of the thousands of souls on the crowded ground jumped. Nora covered Neema’s ears and held Ahdal tight.

The hounds began barking madly; the horses became frightened. A thick smell of rain and wet soil suddenly filled the air.

Another jangling of cowbells, another blow to the stomach.

And then they appeared.

Oh!

The large man next to them opened his eyes wide and took a step back. Nora forcefully protected Neema’s head. All the people were becoming jittery; there was a surge. Momma, Momma! Neema cried. Nora shifted back with the crowd. Ahdal was almost swallowed up by the mass of people, but Isteli held onto his collar. People started yelling out, without reason. They moved back, but didn’t flee the place. Spellbound by the horror, they gazed in astonishment at the sinister appearance of their land, the fate of captivity that was discernible on that plateau. Nora noticed the smell of feces: a man next to her had soiled his pants. She noticed an old woman’s skirt as it quickly became wet through.

The cold had become as sharp as a blade.

M-momma…

She picked up Neema in her arms and held her close, stroking her hair and pressing her face down to her shoulder so she couldn’t see anything.

In front of the Keeper, shiny black wooden faces were hanging in the dark, four arm’s lengths above the ground. Their heads were covered with headcloths, their eyebrows carved by an ax, their eyes round and hollow. From their beaked noses, no breath of life was evident; their mouths were half-closed, lips motionless.

Masks without expressions.

Masks without emotions.

The Mamuthones.

Beneath the masks, their bodies began to materialize little by little, as if they’d always been there and the dusk was making them solid. Their limbs were of black flesh, tree-like flesh, their muscles like sinewy tree trunks. They wore tattered velvet breeches, and over their shoulders a mastrucca skin coat. Three copper bells hung around their necks, and two leather straps crossed around there. Yoked up like animals, each one was bent, carrying fifty-odd vast clanging cowbells on their backs. It was their burden to bear, their bond of duty.

There they stayed, without moving, without speaking. Only three were fully visible in the torchlight; the others were farther away, perhaps there were a hundred or so in number, a procession that became lost in the darkness of the valley.

Nora felt an icy drop of perspiration run from her neck down the length of her back.

The Keeper lifted his head; the horns on his chestnut mask rose to meet the wooden face of the Mamuthone giant. He thrust his stick into the ground and raised the palm of his right hand:

"Children of Hecate! he said, and waited, as if to call up the Lady of the Beyond, to show to her what was happening, that our Ancestors confined to the afterworld. There is nothing for you outside of the Sacred Seal that you destroy. In the name of Maimon, Father of the Day, the Shardan people pay homage to you, eager that you return to the place of shadows where you belong!"

Three bridled bulls on long ropes were being pulled by force toward the bonfires. The bulls were bellowing, groaning furiously and snorting. There was a roll of the trimpanus, the launedda pipes sang out to the stars. The silver needles of the maenads who were overseeing the ceremony pierced the animals’ necks. Their heads were pulled back by their horns, and the earth was sprinkled with drops of scarlet. The bulls fell onto their hooves, their white eyes peering up to the sky and veiling over. Two of the masked women approached the belly of the largest bull and ripped it open. The bull’s heart, still beating, was taken to the Keeper, who accepted it and set it down.

The masked Mamuthone slowly leaned its head to one side and lowered its gaze.

In the torchlight, the mask’s eye sockets were hollows of darkness.

At first it didn’t move, and the entire plateau was silent, expectant. Then slowly it bent down, put its hand out and opened its palm.

For Maimon, for mother Orgìa, they are going to accept it. They’ll go, they’ll go!

Isteli pressed her hands to her mouth. Ahdal clutched her dress. With bated breath, Nora followed the giant’s hand as it dropped down toward the priest’s hand. The Keeper held out his arm; it was covered in blood up to his elbow. He held out the bull’s heart, holding it tight in his hand.

And then the Mamuthone grasped the gift… as well as the person offering it.

The giant lifted the Keeper up, holding him in mid-air. Then it grabbed his chest with its other hand and pulled.

The priest’s innards rained down onto the ground.

Holy mother!

Nothing moved, nothing breathed. Then a cry of terror rose from the petrified throats of the stunned crowd. The people started moving back, first a step at a time, then running and fleeing.

Nora found herself overwhelmed.

Out of the way, out of the waaaaay! someone cried.

Neema burst into tears, and Nora thrashed out, trying to protect her, at the same time reaching out toward Ahdal. Isteli was pushing him forward, sidestepping an old woman who’d fallen to her knees. Nora looked in horror at the old woman’s hand, contracting in pain after being trampled on, but she held her son’s hand tighter than ever, pushing forward, past those in front of her.

Ahdal, stay close to me!

War horns were sounding; the rallying cries became roars of terror. The earth shook. Steps like falling logs, behind, to the right, to the left, with the continual clanging of the vast cowbells. The crowd pushed her in the opposite direction from where she wanted to go, toward the oak woods at the edge of the plateau where she would be safe. But suddenly she found herself flat on the ground. Neema was her only thought. She turned, and a foot kicked her in the face. Tears came to her eyes as she held her aching jaw and as she tried to get up.

Neema! Ahdal! Where are you?

"Mommaaa!"

Nora! Get away from there, get away! cried Isteli.

Nora managed to get up onto one leg and remove her scarf from her face. Then something hit her in the nape of her neck, and everything became blurred. She staggered, holding her head. Neema, Ahdal, my children … Cold. She felt an emptiness around her, and steps going away.

For a split second, her heart stopped.

The jangle of cowbells resounded behind her.

"Nora, get away!"

A shadow towered over her.

We shouldn’t be here. Karnak, what have I done?

She dragged herself forward and she turned.

"MOMMAAA!"

The masked Mamuthone raised its foot.

The Shardan. They were the chosen people, the Sentinels of Hell, the rulers of the seas.

The victims caught by surprise.

II

The Rulers of the Seas

Canopus, Egypt, 1278 B.C.

The snickering of the slave girls broke through the air thick with smoke, and the snickers burst into shrieks of laughter every time Perda – running about naked, his beard dripping with wine – chased a girl around the tables. The opium was burning slowly in the urns, spiraling up to the arched sandstone vaults. It was like a ceiling of fog, thought Karnak as he drew in a long breath, and flying up into it he would be able to break through to the stars.

Karnak was sitting relaxing on the high-backed chair. Through his half-closed eyes, his lazy gaze surveyed the basement room where his companions were enjoying their rewards. The embers on the braziers crackled; firelight dancing on the walls. The steaming hot water within the pool in the middle of the room lapped over each time Mènin, sitting astride her chosen one, pressed her thighs together and with her buttocks taut, pushed forward with her pelvis. The silver nuskèra necklace around her neck beat against her loose red hair on his chest. The moans of pleasure kept time with the beating on the terracotta jar, the trills on the bone flute, but every so often the tap of one of Usai’s chesspieces broke the rhythm, like the bite of a flea, painful, but too quick to disrupt drowsiness.

The Ur warrior was sitting near the hearth, leaning over the table, his arms folded over his vast chest. The faint light was reflected in the perspiration on his shaven head, though his left eye remained dull and white, due to the scar that crossed his face. He rubbed his hand over his beard as he looked hard at the array of black and white chess pieces on the board, as if the high jinx around him and the pale Egyptian sitting in front of him didn’t exist. The game was like a contest between him and the gods; alone he was wrangling with the gods for dominion of the skies, for forbidden knowledge… which was just what Enok was seeking, stretched out on the bed, naked save for his loincloth. His eyes were half closed, white, and his black braided hair was rising and falling on his chest as he breathed. Two bare-breasted slaves were fanning him with peacock feathers, while a third slave was rubbing him with oil, massaging the well-formed thigh muscles with her thin hands. Her tapered fingers seemed audacious, insolent.

Karnak, sitting at the back of the room, fell back onto the cushions and drank a drop of shedeh from his jewel-studded chalice. The thick pomegranate liquor slid down his throat, burning it and melting away the tiredness and the stress of the battle, but also melting away joy, judgement and wakefulness.

Would you like some mandrake, my lord from afar? It will inspire your senses, it will lead you by its hand, inquired a slave girl.

The girl sat on his leg. Her nipples were brushing against his shoulder while one of the girl’s hands led him between her thighs and her other hand put the peeled mandrake root to his lips. Karnak was intoxicated by the fragrance of her hair, by the perfume of her dark skin covered in calamine and honey. But he gently pushed her aside, toward the cushions embroidered with the sun of Amon, where he’d laid his sword and shield. The girl’s black-painted eyes cast daggers at him.

The door of the basement opened and the torches flickered. Fresh air wafted in, bringing with it the odor of the sea. Moser closed the door and slowly walked down the clay steps, a grin appearing on his painted lips, his eyes always vigilant. Karnak smiled to himself. Moser had neither drunk anything, nor smoked anything, and he hadn’t even touched a woman. Just as the priest always behaved.

The Ik priest opened his arms wide, and then lowered them to his side.

The Shardan! he burst out in Egyptian. They’re the most fearful warriors of the known world, the Tyrrhenian devils, the nightmares of sleeping Achaeans, the threats to the virtue of the Pharaoh’s daughters, he said, eyeing the five slave girls sliding and rubbing themselves up against Perda, who was stretched out on a chair. They destroy cities, plunder treasures. Their fury and glory will be sung ’til the ends of time! Look at them, enjoying their rewards after their victory over the African unbeliever, the worshiper of cats and crocodiles! Never was such booty more deserved, and neither should they have any restraint in enjoying it to the full!

Kiss my ass, Phoenician, mumbled Perda, buried in a slave girl’s breasts.

When the powerful warrior learns to wash it, replied Moser.

Perda’s face turned red. He pushed the girl away, but the other slave girls goaded him back down, nibbling at his chest, his neck and his earlobes. Mènin’s fingers clung to her man’s head. Usai frowned and moved a black pawn close to two white pawns. Enok twitched and jerked, then went back to lying senseless. Moser moved between the tables, the edge of his red tunic fluttering as he passed. Shaking his head, he sat down.

Karnak cricked his neck. The Phoenician knew something. This was his show, and he’d deserved it. Like Perda and his wine, and Mènin and her man. Karnak played along.

Moser moved the remains of the banquet to one side, pulled out a papyrus scroll from a cylindrical pouch, unrolled it and blocked the two curled-up ends and put two coconut bowls on them. From a box, he pulled out an inkwell and his bamboo quill decorated with flamingo feathers. He took up the pen with his bandaged hand, dipped it in ink, and then laid it across the inkwell to rest. From his belt, he pulled out his ivory pipe, and he calmly filled it. He lit his pipe from an incense stick, put it to his mouth, and took up the pen. As he began smoking, the bowl of his pipe became red and his eyes became tinged with ocher.

He started writing, and the incessant grating sound on the papyrus echoed for a moment around the room.

"General Karnak, valiant balente of the Antìgori clan from the Island of S’ard – the island we Ik call Iqnû-ša, the island of the Great Green Sea, he said dreamily, commander of the Shardan fleet in Egypt, will be pleased to know that his invincible warriors are also enjoying the spoils of their victory in the streets of the city and camped out along the whole seashore. No bloodbaths… we know your tastes as victors. Just good wine and sweet company." Through his loose hair, Karnak stared at the pen dipping into the inkwell, reappearing, and