The Awakening

By Mathew Kellerman

A thousand years ago, a shadow fell across the world, killing the gods and poisoning the sun.

The Cities of Wisdom survive only through submission to the Mazdas, vestigial priests of the ancient pantheon. Venerating the dead gods, and the clergy who keep their memory alive, is the only way to keep the Shadow at bay. To questi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mathew Kellerman
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781738067619

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Copyright © 2023 by Mathew Kellerman

Mathew Kellerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-7380676-1-9

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact author.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by Miblart

Map by Mathew Kellerman

1st edition 2023

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Prologue

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The Cities of Wisdom stretch along the Gulf of Dusk. From the Adrantic Coast in the north to the Aetolian Cape in the south do they spring, hemmed in from the east by the Palatine Jungles. For generations, the Cities stood as bastions of civilization; the soaring towers of stone touched the very heavens, their great arcaded halls filled with the knowledge and treasures that gave the Cities their name. Indeed, travelers came from every corner of Elysia to seek guidance from the Mazdas, custodians of the great temples that were dedicated to the Gods. Wealth poured into the Cities, turning the lowliest of hovels from sticks to clean adobe, while knowledge was accumulated in ever grander temples and shrines that became the envy of the continent.

With so much prosperity and wisdom at hand, the arts flourished. Vast murals and mosaics covered the buildings in swaths of colour that would rival sunsets. Grand and intricate statues and gardens were erected everywhere, providing the happy populace with heroes and places to admire them in. Music filled the air, from great orchestras accompanying theatrical performances to simple buskers strumming a lute or lyre on the corner. A golden age, worthy of the Gods themselves.

And then the Shadow fell.

I did not know the Cities of that golden age. I was born in the 888th year of the Shadow. The Gods were eaten by the world-covering horror, leaving their chosen people alone, and as their grace and miracles faded from this land, the wisdom of their representatives, the Mazdas, faded in kind. There is but emptiness and an oppressive stagnation.

The Mazdas, those that survive, hoard the once abundant wealth that remains in the hopes of prolonging their rule. We pay them willingly, in one form or another, so that we might attend their broken towers, sit in their crumbling halls, and listen to them speak of the Gods. At least, I used to. I have nothing left to give, and so I stay on the ground. Alone.

Each day I grow angrier and more cynical. I curse the Mazdas and their temples. I deny they ever had wisdom, or that there was ever glory in the Cities. I curse the Gods and say they deserved their fate; what sort of deities are destroyed in a single day? I wander the dirty streets and tell anyone who looks my way the Gods were false and the Mazdas were ignorant, treacherous swindlers. They turn away quickly, going about their miserable lives in the dusty streets of the city, ignoring the crumbling images of better times and better people all around them. How I envy them.

Why? Why do I wish I were still like them? My usual excuse is that, if I were, I would not give everything to the Mazdas, and thus would not be sitting destitute on the street. It’s a lie, but any shallow excuse allows me to keep from breaking down completely. I don’t want to admit that I yearn to be back in those temples. I cannot admit it. And the worst part of it is, I don’t even understand why I want to; the ceremonies are depressing.

We are told that, in the golden age, the Eternal Fires of the Gods would burn brightly at the pinnacles of the tallest ziggurats, illuminating the Cities of Wisdom day and night, basking the streets of dressed stone in warm, flickering light. The people would gather in the rooftop gardens, cooled by the high breezes and refreshed by the fountains that miraculously brought water from far below; they would sit and sing and listen to the Mazdas speak of the Gods, of the workings of the world, and of far-off lands shrouded in myth.

The fountains are crumbling now, and the gardens wild. The Eternal Fires are as dead as the gods they represented, and there are no more wonderous tales told. Instead, the people pay their remaining valuables to sit and listen to a funeral service. They hear over and over how the Gods heard the cry of their chosen people and descended from on high in a glorious display of mythical power. How they were shining and brilliant in armour of pure light and wielding weapons made of stars, their beauty matched only by the terrible ferocity of their battle cries. And how they were promptly consumed by the Shadow. The Mazdas’ sermons lament the wasted lives and the ruin of the world, and everyone sings songs of melancholy and despair. It is a ceremony of sadness, and I crave it with every inch of my being.

Why? I don’t know. There is something comforting in hearing of the Defeat, of the times before, and of the old wisdom. It’s all gone now, yet it existed once and, as the Mazdas claim, parts of it still exist today. The beliefs and traditions of the past serve a purpose, they say, and despite the death of the Gods, we should still honour and worship them, just as we should adhere to the ways they ordained for us. A society in which the Mazdas rule the land and we, the people, work hard that we might pay to hear their sermons. Pay to hear how virtuous hard work is, or how taking responsibility for the world around us is the only way to restore the Cities to their former glory. It all sounds so good, even if I don’t believe it. So simple, as if picking up a broom to sweep away the fallen tiles would somehow restore the faded lustre of the others.

The ceremonies are calming, and despite the tone of sadness, they hold a promise of hope that I’ve never understood but crave constantly.

I am a beggar, and sometimes manage to scrape a few coppers together to buy myself a seat in the back of some ancient courtyard high up in the clouds. Leaning against the fallen columns of the arcade, I listen, I sing, I cry, and then I leave depressed and poor, and I starve in the gutters. There are no tears then, only hate and loathing, and in childish revenge against fate I begin shouting my dissatisfaction to the world. People avoid me, but I shout at them anyway.

Tonight is one of the worse nights. My begging failed to gain me a seat, or even enough for a measly bite of food. So now I sit in the Garden of Faith, leaning my back against the statue of Shar’Reue, and curse the stars as my stomach growls. It’s these nights when I feel the crushing weight of the world most and contemplate why I persist in it when I could so easily walk off one of the terraced avenues and tumble fifty feet to an anonymous end below.

Two men, making their way home from a busy day of work, pass close by.

There’s no point! I scream at them, as if they had been privy to my thoughts. No point in anything! The Shadow will eat us all eventually, so there’s no damn point!

They quicken their pace and move away, avoiding even looking at me. Somewhere in the darkness of the city, a bird calls and is answered by others. The wind whispers along the ruddy clay tiles of the roofs above me, leaving a momentary silence behind it. In the pause, a distant funerary bell rings out, signaling another soul departing this world. The sounds of the night resume, and I shrink lower into myself seeking to avoid the cold breeze.

There’s no point, I whisper as I close my eyes and settle in.

And there’s no hope.

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1

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There was a bird standing on the lichen-encrusted balustrade above me.

Chirp, it said. At least, that was what my ears heard it say. Perhaps it was really telling some mate that there was a lamentable being here below that was just asleep.

Come, it told its unseen companion, come and shout with me; let us deprive him of rest! I couldn’t help but smile as a second bird appeared, looked down upon me, cocked its head, and let out a chirp of its own. I raised my hands and made the ancient sign we are told wards off evil. In reply, the first bird chirped indignantly, while the second let a liquid white turd fall into the sickly green lichen. They flew off together, dismissing me and my ward.

Last night’s cold lingered and my body ached as I laid propped against the plinth of the statue of Shar’Reue that stood proud over the Garden of Faith. His stern gaze surveyed the overgrown thickets and weedy beds of the city’s central square.

What has become of my garden? His authoritarian eyes and pursed lips demand of the world.

What does it matter? I asked him. You were eaten.

On shaky legs I push myself up and regret it immediately as pain shot through my back. Falling, another explosion of agony erupted in my stomach, and all too quickly did the cobblestones rise up to greet my face.

Hello old friend, they seemed to say. Back so soon for another rest?

No loitering!

The command was barked from somewhere above me, but before I could make sense of the world, the assault continued with a boot to my temple.

In the name of the Gods, vacate this holy place at once!

The Gods are dead, I croaked.

A boot hurtling towards my face put an end to further discussion.

The sun was high when I woke, and suddenly I envied the Gods their death. My body was on fire and my head was pounding. My left eye wouldn’t open, and as I gingerly probed with a finger, pain shot through my cheek. Breathing in, my nose was assaulted by the reek of rotting fish and human waste against the backdrop of salt.

So, I’ve been dumped near the docks, I concluded.

Chirp.

Chirp?

Chirp!

I rolled onto my side, propped myself up on my elbows, and looked at the wharf towering above me. There, upon the deeply pitted and stained concrete, was a little bird. As my one good eye adjusted and my mind cleared, I began to question this absurdity. You are not a seabird, my mind pretended to tell it.

Why are you here? I asked.

It cocked its head. Chirp.

What cruel prank is this? My suspicion grew, fuelling an irrational anger. What is this creature? It was barely the size of a closed fist, with a grey head, white breast, and brown wings trimmed in a border of black and white. Its beak, a tight triangle of crimson, matched the bright tail feathers of an equally brilliant red. That such a tiny thing should bother me so much only increased my ire.

Begone, vermin, lest I make you my breakfast! I shouted venomously.

The bird turned its head to the opposite side and, without concern, pecked at the concrete wall upon which it stood. The hate burned within me hotter than the sun. I shouted at it, cursed it, and attempted to rise in order that I might seek vengeance upon the foul fowl, but only succeeded in gaining a weary knee before my balance faltered. My only recourse was to spit another string of profane curses at the creature. Raising its small eyes to perceive what all the fuss was about, the bird took a few sprightly hops forward before giving a curse of its own.

Chirp! It turned its head right. It turned its head left. Chirp!

Intolerable!

I made the sign to ward off evil once more and, to my surprise, the bird flew away without a further sound.

That sure showed him! came a kindly sea drawl. I painfully turned my head and there, sitting not far to the right of where my feathered tormentor had been, was a girl.

Quite a battle, the likes of which I’ve rarely seen! And such a pretty bird, too! I don’t see many of them this close to the ocean; it’s the gulls and hawks, you see, that eat the little fellows.

I was about to eat him, I grumbled.

Oh, don’t! the girl pleaded. He would hardly be a mouthful, and there’s not enough beauty in the world that we can afford to eat it.

It’s now or never, I told myself. Rise or consign yourself to death and be done with it. Although, death might be nice... You would no longer hurt, your stomach would not ache further, and there would be silence. Silence from this world, and silence from your despair. You’d be free, and would never have to yell at anyone, or anything, again.

Having a pleasant morning?

The girl. Somehow, I’d forgotten her completely. I turned to berate her in kind, and yet, as I looked into those large, innocent eyes, the realization dawned that it was a genuine enquiry and not a prelude to further torment. The hate dissipated, replaced by shame.

Good. My voice was a stammer. Yes.

My papa sometimes looks rough, just as you, but is generally cheerful. ‘Sailor’s temperament,’ he says. ‘No need to interrupt a sunny morning ’cause of last night’s storm,’ she imitates the voice of a grown man and giggles.

I didn’t really understand the sea reference because my head was still swimming. Good, I managed to say again, as if that were a suitable reply, and then my mind wandered back to my own concerns. The sun was nearly at its zenith; if I hurried, I might possibly beg enough to attend an evening service. Or food. Food would be good. I took a step, and when I didn’t fall over, I took another, and another. It’s roughly three hundred paces to the city’s harbour gate. Not bad; I’d certainly been dumped in worse places.

What ship are you from? The girl fell into step beside me, staring up at me patiently while I looked at her dumbly.

I’m not a sailor, I finally said, grasping her meaning.

She stopped walking, suddenly suspicious. Why were you at the docks?

I slept with a god last night. Some people didn’t like that, so here I am.

Gone was the worry, replaced by youthful wonder and excitement. You’ve seen a god? Are you a Mazda? Are the Gods returning?

I said nothing, for what was there to say? The gate was drawing nearer, and I could see a line has already formed for entry. A few traders, fresh from their ships, were leading hired mule carts loaded with wares. The city guard, wearing faded yellow and orange gambesons and carrying seven-foot spears tipped in bronze, moved amongst them inspecting the cargoes and collecting the tithe. Others, on foot and with small bundles or nothing at all, endured a brief glance before being waved ahead for admittance; the tithe was for trade goods, not people.

Papa said we’d go listen to the Mazdas today, but I don’t like being in the cities, the girl told me. But if you’re a Mazda, maybe you could come speak at the ship instead! We usually eat at midday, and Papa would surely welcome you aboard!

Food.

My stomach ached at the very idea of it, reminding me how long it’d been since I last had any. My mind began to work, desperation driving a terrible scheme into my head. I could be a Mazda, and it would only be for one meal; short enough that no one would know, then back to the anonymity of the gutters. But you wear rags, my mind argued, and adults will see what this little girl does not. Then it’s off to the Rock.

But food.

You will be caught, I told myself, and you will die before ever being given any food. They will expel you from their table before you even sit down, and the Guard will be summoned, maybe even the prelates. Then you are just another stain upon the Rock; another heretic beaten and bloodied and left for the falcons to feast on.

My lips moved, and my mind protested in horror at what it heard: Of course, it would be an honour to join you.

How delightful! she exclaimed, her youthful exuberance fully restored. Come, it’s this way! We are not a large ship, but dry and weatherly, you’ll see. There’s thirty of us, plus Papa and me, and they’re all ‘good salts’ Papa says. I think you’ll particularly appreciate the figurehead! It’s fashioned after the goddess Dui’Lea, and we’ve kept it in exempl... exemple… ex-em-pla-ree condition. Better shape than the goddess herself, or so the men say.

She rambled on about this or that the whole journey, pausing only when an answer to some question or statement was required. I gave non-committal noises as needed, or left it in expectant silence, feigning consideration until she leapt to a new line of thought. In truth I wasn’t listening. My mind was busy preparing for what was to come. How could I be convincing as a Mazda, at least long enough to gain a bite to eat? How would I then excuse myself without retribution or a visit from the Guard?

We continued down the docks until we arrived at a tall sailing ship moored with heavy cordage to the concrete bollards. Standing before the gangplank that ran between the ground and the ship, I realized I had nothing, and my body shook with terror.

Mistaking my fear for that of a common landsman, the girl patted my hand reassuringly. Fear not, she told me, the plank is anchored securely, and just mind the swell. What exactly was the swell I was left to wonder, but it became clear when the water raised the ship, which raised the plank, which almost sent me tumbling into the ocean.

Adelina, came a burly voice from above. Where have you been, dove?

The girl ran up the gangplank and into the arms of a weathered sailor. The man was easily forty, with more grey than black in his long cue of hair and close-cropped beard. His face was dark from the sun, and his bronze eyes peered suspiciously at me from beneath massive brows but softened immediately as they turned to the girl.

Papa! she said lovingly and planted a kiss on the grizzled cheek. I was just down the quay looking at the shore.

And who is this man? The suspicion returned in force, but the tone remained kind for the girl’s sake.

He is a Mazda, Papa! she told him matter-of-factly. And he has come to speak with us so that we don’t have to go into the city! I invited him for lunch.

A Mazda, is he?

His eyes were threatening, and I shrank under his gaze. Think quick, I urged myself. Make some excuse and walk away.

He slept with a god!

And there it was — my death warrant. His eyes turned murderous, and the man gritted his teeth together as he fought to stay calm for his daughter, but the blasphemy demanded action.

Hector! he barked over his shoulder. Hector, come here!

His gaze never left me, nor did it soften as Hector appeared at the rail above. He was a brute of a man, easily six foot seven, two hundred and thirty pounds of sinewy muscle and, judging from the thick, lustrous onyx of his hair, in the prime of his life. He gave Adelina a large smile and bent down to plant a kiss on her forehead, receiving one in return on his cheek, before taking notice of his captain’s expression and tracing it down to me.

A Mazda, Adelina’s papa explained, come to minister to our humble crew, if you can believe our good fortune.

Hector’s smile disappeared too, hatred taking its place, but the sailor did not hold his tongue in deference to the little lady.

Heresy! He spat the word with such venom that the other two jumped slightly at the force behind it, while I shrank further in the face of this new threat.

I didn’t know how, for my mind was frozen with fear, but a belaying pin was suddenly in Hector’s hands, and he held it like a club. Run, my brain screamed at me. Run now! Fast! He’s coming down the ramp!

Oh, Papa, please! Hector, stop! He’s a Mazda, truly he is!

The good-natured pleading did nothing to slow Hector’s progress down the gangplank. He’s a filthy heretic!

Think! Run! Try begging for your life! my mind screamed, but I was frozen in place. This was the end, wasn’t it? The murder in this giant’s eyes told me this would not just be another beating. This would be it; this would be my end.

There were words for this. I’d heard them said by the Mazdas. The real Mazdas. Words of comfort when death was near. Words of calm. Words of…

Chirp!

Hector stopped, and we all turned to my right and looked at the ship’s railing. There sat the little black bird. We all stared at it in confusion as it chirped happily.

And then the words came.

I have come upon you as a stranger, that you see with thine own eyes and hear with thine own ears and feel with thine own soul that which I have brought to you. Would that I had descended in Glory, and in so doing made everything Holy, then the greatness of My Gift would be overshadowed, and the very purpose undone. But in a humble lie did I come upon you, and with thine eyes and ears and soul have you beheld My Gift, and you have taken it into yourselves. Through My Grace and your acceptance, you have gained Wisdom.

It was part of the story of Ven’Tethra, chief amongst the Gods, and the founding of the Cities of Wisdom. It was meant to teach people not to make assumptions and to give every stranger a chance to prove themselves. I’d heard it often and had always cursed everyone for not adhering to the obvious moral of this popular tale. Now, as I pronounced the excerpt with as much conviction as I could muster, I said a silent prayer to dead gods that it would save me.

Hector remained frozen in place, his face contorting in confusion. As the awkward seconds rolled by, I could see fear begin to take root within him. It was sacrilege to threaten a Mazda, punishable by death. Adelina’s father also stared on in dismay. Only the girl was unfazed and beamed at hearing what to her was the natural outcome of events: she had said I was a Mazda, and I had just delivered some holy words. Proof. Simple.

Everyone knows this tale, her father said slowly. Yet I have never seen a Mazda appear so… He paused, searching for a diplomatic way to say poor, rundown, and squalid. Modest.

Hector recovered a measure of his confidence and began moving towards me once more. Yes, he agreed. I’ve never seen a Mazda not in the fine robes of his office or holding the symbols of his god.

Why was I not in robes? Because you aren’t a Mazda, fool. Yes, but I was in too far to turn back. Beg for your life, they may just beat you and not bother the Guard. Particularly with the girl watching, they may show mercy. The girl? Damn it, why had I told her I had been sleeping with a god? I... I had been sleeping with a god…

One does not sleep in robes, I told them evenly, doing my best to remove the fear from my voice and maintain eye contact with them. The Mazdas always looked people in the eye.

The Gods are dead, growled Adelina’s father, his patience with this farce wearing thin. Hector, remove this man from my ship.

Aye, Captain!

The loathing returned to Hector’s gaze, yet something gripped me then, and I suddenly had no control over my tongue.

"The Gods are dead, I agreed, but one can still sleep with the dead. There is comfort to be had in proximity, and last night I slept in the Garden of Faith, at the foot of Shar’Reue, and there the most miraculous thing happened."

Hector stopped again, now only a foot or so away from me. He gave a questioning glance to the two at the rail, and I saw the doubt once again on the face of Adelina’s sire.

What happened? the girl asked, full of wonder.

I was possessed and at the mercy of the fantasy now forming in my thoughts.

I dreamt, I said simply, in the manner Mazdas do when they’ve made a statement they feel everyone should instinctively understand the importance of.

What did you dream? Hector demanded.

I gave him a kindly smile. Why, I dreamt of God.

Which god?

The only god.

The Gods are dead, the captain repeated above us.

The Gods are dead, I echoed. Eaten by the Shadow.

Of which god did you dream? Hector asked again.

I dreamt of the Dreamer. I don’t know how, but I was suffused with confidence, my voice holding all the authority and gravitas I lacked.

I dreamt of She Who Sleeps, whose seed was planted by the fall of those who came before, and who gestates in the darkness of the Shadow. I dreamt of the New God, Eyr’Arawn.

A strong sea breeze washed over us then, bringing with it a supernatural chill. I had just pronounced the name of a new goddess, going beyond mere sacrilege and heresy, and yet the sailors stared at me in religious awe and trepidation. I could not guess at their thoughts, so I kept silent. I stood with a keen awareness that with one swing of the pin, Hector could cave my skull in.

Adelina. Her papa cleared his throat. Be a good girl and set another place at the table.

Just as awkwardly, Hector turned and gestured for me to follow him up the gangplank. My stomach gave a painful growl, causing both of us to stare at it. The little bird stared too, gave a final chirp, then took flight. Another, softer gust of wind caressed my cheek reassuringly. Swallowing the sigh of relief, I stepped forward and began moving up.

2

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The Lusty Maid was roughly fifty feet fore and aft, and thirty or so in beam. Its name, I was told, was a reference to Adelina’s late mother.

A woman as pure and upright as could be wished for, yet gave me my daughter in such ways you could only dream of, the captain, whose name was Luco, told me as the meal was served by the ship’s cook.

Everyone talked sufficiently small amid an air of embarrassment and wonder that hung over the crew. I didn’t mind, for it allowed me to eat and saved me from further interrogation. But I knew, as